


Where the Story Ends

by isnt_it_pretty



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Martin Keay AU, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, S3 AU, Siblings, cancer mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 04:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30033093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: Martin was raised in blood and ink, his mother's hands stained with secrets. His brother taught him of the monsters who lived between the pages of mother's books, but Gerry could never protect him from them all.Perhaps it is karma then, that Martin destroyed their mother's page, only for Gertrude to trap Gerry in his own.AU where Martin doesn't work for the Institute, and never told his boyfriend that he is Mary Keay's youngest son.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Where the Story Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so just a couple quick things on this AU.  
> Eric Delano quit the archives after finding out that Mary was pregnant again, and was killed before Martin was born. There's a four year age difference between Martin and Gerry, with Gerry being the older.  
> In this, Martin never worked at the Magnus Institute. He and Jon met sometime in s2 and have been dating for about a year by this point.
> 
> Thank you to @Your_Local_Eldrich_Horror here on ao3 for beta reading!
> 
> If you like this concept and want to play around with it yourself, please feel free!
> 
> Lastly, give me a follow on [ Tumblr! ](https://isnt-it-pretty.tumblr.com/)  
> 

The page weighs heavy in Jon's bag as he unlocks the door to Martin's flat. He still hasn't figured out what he's going to say. How does one explain that they found the trapped soul of their boyfriend's dead brother and that they know said boyfriend has been lying about his identity? Not that Jon is particularly angry about that one, he can understand why Martin avoided talking about that — as much as Jon wishes he had known previous to this mess.

There is a bookcase in the living room. It's nearly full of esoteric tomes Jon had spent hours paging through before, with notes in Martin's careful hand on the margins of the pages. The bookcase has five shelves, light coloured and wood, one of which holds a surprisingly large collection of poetry. It is this shelf that holds an urn — pale blue and white glaze over carefully sculpted pottery, Jon has never thought of it before.

He can think of little else now. Are these Gerry's ashes? Held onto desperately by a grieving younger brother? They must have been close, based on what Gerry had told him. It must have hurt to lose the only family Martin really had.

Jon thinks the same of the paintings adorning the walls. Framed canvases with splashes of colour, they speak of loneliness. Art has never been Jon's interest — it's too nebulous, with no concrete interpretation. Standing before them now, his eyes drawn to the scribbled signature at the bottom, Jon thinks he may have a better appreciation for it. Or maybe the melancholy that seeps off the canvas is just a placebo from knowing the man who painted them is dead.

This isn't the flat Gerry lived in with Martin, Jon knows. For starters, it only has one bedroom, but it’s also missing the overt aesthetic of gothic rebellion that Jon has grown to associate with Gerard Keay. Instead, Gerry’s touch is subtle — little trinkets decorate the shelves, books that Jon knows Martin would never read. All the things Jon never bothered thinking about before now paint a picture of somebody — Gerry — loved so wholly and completely that the one left behind cannot possibly divorce himself from their shared history.

"Oh!" Martin says, jumping as he enters the room. He has a mug of tea in one hand, and a book of Keats poems in the other — his thumb marking a page somewhere in the middle. He must have been reading it while waiting for his tea. "Jon! I didn’t know you were back!" He’s smiling as he says it, and he tosses the paperback onto the sofa as he approaches. They haven’t seen each other in weeks, and even that had been brief between hiding from the police and being kidnapped.

Jon rubs at his eyes. “Yes, I just got in. Sorry, I should have called.” He had wanted to — he had stared at his phone in the airport, trying to think of what to say, and even gone as far as having his finger hover over Martin’s contact.

Martin's eyebrows crease, and then he's putting down his mug and resting the back of his hand against Jon’s forehead. "Are you okay?" He asks, care dripping from his lips like sweet honey.

_ No, _ Jon wants to say.  _ No, I'm not. I'm tired and scared, I feel like I'm becoming a monster. I had to sneak a magic page of human skin onto an eight hours flight to tell you that your brother may be dead, but he isn't fully gone. _ Instead, he forced a smile that comes out closer to a grimace. "Just tired, it was a long flight."

He wishes that were true. Christ, Jon wishes that none of this were happening — that Gerard Keay hadn't died of cancer in another continent, so far away from the single person who loved him. 

This is what Gerry asked for — his one condition of giving Jon information about the Unknowing. Take his page back to England, and give it to his brother. It was quite a shock to both of them to find that Gerry's brother and Jon's boyfriend are one and the same.

Martin doesn’t seem to buy his excuse, which is fair considering Jon  _ is _ lying, and has a history of being less than truthful about his own wellbeing. The flight was long, and he is absolutely exhausted, but he can deal with both of those, probably. What he can’t deal with is the page.

Within minutes Martin has Jon sitting on the sofa, a blanket pulled up around his shoulders and pressing a mug of tea into his hands. He’s too good for him, Jon thinks as he focuses on the warmth premating the mug in his hands. It radiates pleasantly through his palms and down his arms.

Jon has missed this. Tea and warmth and love. None of those things were around for the past weeks of travel, and he wants nothing more than to curl into the comfort, to fall asleep with Martin’s arms wrapped around him.

He can’t do that, though. It wouldn’t be fair to seek comfort while withholding the knowledge that Jon has about Gerry.

How much does Martin know, he wonders. Jon had told him he was headed to China, in order to follow Getrude’s path. He has to have known that Gerry had been with her, but Martin has never said a word. 

“Martin,” he says, forcing the words out through his teeth. Christ, Jon wishes he were having any conversation but the one he’s about to start. 

Martin is still fussing, his hands hovering close by now that he’s already gotten Jon a blanket and tea. There’s a bottle of paracetamol on the table, for the inevitable headache that will come as he releases weeks’ worth of tension. 

“Yes, love?” Martin asks as he adjusts the blanket wrapped around Jon’s shoulders for what feels like the tenth time in half as many minutes. 

If he doesn’t do that now, Martin will have him bundled in bed as soon as his tea is finished, and then Jon will have to find a way to do it tomorrow. He feels nauseous as he puts the mug down on the wooden coffee table. His bag is on the floor at his feet, and Jon picks it up but doesn’t open it to dig out the carefully packed page. He’d double-checked upon leaving the airport that it was still inside his bag, although Jon hadn’t known what he would have done if it wasn’t.

He bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood, and twines his fingers in the fabric of his bag. They’re anxious habits he’s never been able to kick, despite his grandmother’s constant scoldings about it. 

“I-” Jon starts, before having to close his eyes and take a deep breath. “I have to talk to you about something. It’s, um, rather important.”

Even with his eyes closed, Jon can hear the slight sound of Martin sucking in a breath. He lets one of his hands go without realizing and brings it to his mouth to bite at. As a kid, Jon had constantly been accompanied by short and bloody nails, especially after  _ A Guest for Mr. Spider. _ Unlike his other anxious ticks, this  _ is _ one he has managed to stop, for the most part. Georgie had taken to painting his nails in uni since it helped with the biting. As long as he doesn’t let them grow for too long, he can avoid biting them. It seems today is a good time to fall back into bad habits. 

God, Jon feels like he’s going to throw up. The feeling of nausea is building in his throat, bubbling up with the growing sense of impending doom. His hands are shaking, Jon realizes distantly, and he wonders through the buzzing in his ears whether or not he’s on the verge of a panic attack. Probably, considering the weight of his entire situation. Less than 24 hours ago, he was stalked by a Stranger, kidnapped again, had the emotional whiplash of talking to his boyfriend’s dead brother, stole said boyfriend’s dead brother, and managed to fly back to England. Now he has to find a way to put this all into words, when words aren’t exactly his strong suit at the best of times.

With his eyes closed, Jon doesn’t realize Martin is reaching for him until his soft, warm hands close around the one Jon has been biting. He flinches, opening his eyes to see Martin gently pulling his hand away. “Come now Love,” Martin says, clutching Jon’s hand, and runs a thumb across the back of it as he speaks. “Whatever’s wrong, we can figure out together. So just breathe, alright?”

If Jon didn’t know Martin as well as he does, the pinched anxiety across his features would easily be overlooked. As it is though, Jon recognizes the look of nervousness permeating his features. 

Jon wets his lips and pulls in a breath through his nose. He holds it for a moment, before letting it go out through his mouth, and repeating it a few times. It takes several minutes, but between the breathing and Martin’s grounding presence, Jon feels  _ slightly _ less like the world is about to topple over onto him. He still feels like he’s going to be sick, though.

“Okay,” he says, shifting a little. Martin is still holding one hand, while the other is holding the bag. “Okay, first, I need you to know that this has nothing to do with  _ us. _ I’m not about to-to break up with you, or tell you I never want to see you again, or whatever worst case scenario you’re currently picturing.” Although after Jon is through, Martin may prefer if that was all this is about. 

“Alright,” Martin says, and his shoulders relax only just. He must know that whatever this is, it’s a big deal. He reaches up a hand and runs it through Jon’s hair in a comforting gesture, and Jon has to try his best not to cry. 

He takes a deep breath again. “I told you before I left that I was following Gertrude Robinson’s path, to try and find out what I could about the Unknowing?”

Martin nods. That at least Jon had made sure to communicate, along with where he was, and that he was safe. 

“Okay. Well, um, there was a statement sent to a hotel in Chicago, but there was nothing there when I arrived. She did leave a forwarding address though — to the Usher Foundation. I um. In the US, you can’t drive with a British License, so even though I hate driving, I knew there was no way that Gertrude had. So, um, I checked the Greyhound routes. The most direct route, well. It went through Pittsburgh.” Jon looks at Martin as he says it, trying to gauge his reaction. Martin though, is very good at reigning in his emotions. Jon used to be envious of the ability, but now that he knows more about it, he can guess that it was a necessary skill. One developed from years living with a woman like Mary Keay. 

“I knew of a man, f-from statements, who passed away there,” he cringed. “Gerard Keay.”

Martin pales at that, and Jon can see a slight tremor in his hands.

“I, um, I found out what happened to him, how he- how he passed,” is there a tactful way to put this? Jon has no idea. “Anyway, um, after I asked around I realized there was no lead there, so I got on another bus to Washington DC.” He bites at his mouth again. “I was stopped at a rest stop by a woman. Julia. Montauk. The daughter of the infamous serial killer? Um, she had given a statement about her father. Anyway, um, I was being followed by a-a  _ thing. _ A Stranger. She kind of kidnapped me? But um, she helped me, in the long run. Her and a man named Trevor Herbert. They- they agreed to help me with the Unknowing by letting me use a, a  _ resource, _ they’d called it.” He’s shaking again, but fuck if he stops now he won’t start again. Martin too is looking ill. “It was a book,” Jon forces out. “The Catalogue of the Trapped Dead.”

“Jon-” Martin starts, but Jon won’t let him because he  _ needs  _ to say this.

“Gerard Keay. Gertrude Robinson had- had trapped him there. I spoke to him Martin, I- I  _ know, _ about him, about  _ you, _ and-and your mother and-”

“Shut up!” Martin says, flinching back. His breathing is quick, and his face the particular shade of bright red that he gets when he’s about to start crying. “Stop! Stop fucking talking. Please, just don’t.” He’s pulling away, standing up to-

Jon doesn’t let him, he dives forward, landing  _ hard _ on his bad knee, but it’s worth it to grab hold of Martin’s wrist. “Martin, please,” he says, letting the desperation he feels leak into his words. “Please, please just listen to me, this is important, Martin-”

He doesn’t, Martin pulls his arm from Jon’s grasp. “N-No,” he says, his voice shaking. The panic is easy to see, the denial. “No, no Gerry is  _ dead _ Jon. I-I don’t, if Gertrude-” 

“I have his page,” Jon cuts him off, because if either of them start to spiral anymore than they already are, there won’t be any coming back. “He asked me to take it, to-to bring it to  _ you. _ ”

That seems to get Martin’s attention. He stops backing away frantically and looks at Jon with wide eyes.

He takes that as his cue and opens his bag to find the carefully wrapped page. He’d put it inside a large hardcover book to keep it safe, and wrapped that in clothes. Jon uncovers that now, and opens the cheap book on US mountain ranges to reveal the page.

It’s pale and leathery, adorned in black ink describing in detail the last moments of Gerard Keay. How he was afraid, longed for his brother even halfway across the world. 

Martin is standing stock still, frozen as he looks at the page. His breaths are coming out quickly, and he seems caught between wanting to reach for the page, rush away, or vomit. Jon can empathize. 

“If- if you don’t want to, to speak to him, I can. I can help if, release him, it’s okay.” Gerry will understand, Jon wants to say, but he doesn’t think that’s the right thing at the moment. He knows that if Martin doesn’t speak to his brother, he will regret it until the day he dies.

“I-I-” he tries, but he can’t seem to force the words out.

Jon slips the page back into the hardcover book — there’s plenty of space for it, after Jon had torn out a handful of pages in the restroom to be sure that the book could close properly. 

“It’s okay,” Jon says, putting the book — and thus page — on the coffee table. Cautiously, Jon pushed himself up to his feet, trying to reach for Martin. He stumbles as he takes a step, his bad knee screaming and unable to hold his weight. Jon expects to fall. It wouldn’t be the first time, and although it would hurt, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Martin doesn’t let that happen though. He closes the distance between them, and despite his tear-streaked face and shaking limbs, he still catches Jon.

“Fuck,” Jon whispers, more like a gasp of air than anything. He draws his leg up to his chest and curses that his body has decided that  _ now _ is the time to give up.

“Do-” Martin starts, before having to stop to breathe. “Do you need ice?” There’s a weakness in his voice — the kind of fatigue that can only come from a panic attack. Jon can feel the way Martin trembles and tries to mask his breathing as normal.

It seems they’re both more than willing to ignore their own needs for the other. 

“No,” Jon says quietly, allowing himself a moment of weakness as he curls in against Martin’s pale green jumper. 

They both sit like that, curled around one another on the floor of Martin’s flat. They don’t say anything, but after five or so minutes, Jon can feel Martin’s trembling begin to calm down. His boyfriend takes to running a hand through Jon’s frankly disgusting hair. It’s tangled and oily, since all he’s had to wash it with is shitty hotel shampoo. 

“You’re exhausted Jon,” Martin mutters, pressing his nose into Jon’s hair, and pulling him even closer until Jon is completely in his lap. “I- everything else can wait.”

_ It can’t _ , Jon wants to say.  _ I’m fine. _ But he knows neither of those are true. Martin needs time to process this, and he needs to feel useful. Jon can allow him that, even if he’s been trying to break Martin of the belief that his worth is defined only by what he can do for others. 

He doesn’t object when Martin lifts him easily — Jon has always been on the lighter side, and Martin is deceptively strong — and starts toward the bedroom. He sets Jon on the bed, next to one of the outfits Jon likes most — a pair of soft joggers and one of Martin’s old t-shirts, with a worn jumper he steals more often than not. He must have set it out earlier.

“Martin?” Jon asks tentatively. “I’m sorry.”

Martin is going through his dresser for his own pajamas, despite the fact it isn’t even that late — a little past 8 pm. He stops when Jon apologizes, and Jon can see the tension in his body as he does. “I- it's not your fault Jon,” Martin says. “I just- it’s a lot.”

“I know,” Jon replies. He wants to say more, but stops himself. Martin is right, they’re both exhausted, it will be better to deal with this all tomorrow.

* * *

Jon wakes up to the sun across his face. It seems that the total lack of sleep he’s been getting recently has helped skip any jet lag, considering the sun only shines through Martin’s bedroom window in the mornings. 

He sits up, cringing. Martin had talked him into taking a shower the evening before, but they were both too exhausted — physically and emotionally — to bother blow drying it. Jon is regretting that now, as he can feel the damp bits where his hair didn’t have the airflow to dry properly overnight. He knows if he looks in a mirror, his hair will be a mess of tangles, as it usually is when he goes to sleep with it wet. Jon can’t bring himself to care though.

Martin isn’t in bed, which isn’t really unusual. He’s almost always awake before Jon, as long as Jon had managed to get any sleep the previous night. Still, after how the night before had gone, Jon can’t help but feel a twinge of concern. 

Jon’s cane is resting against the bedside table, likely courtesy of Martin. He grabs it as he’s climbing out of the bed, and is glad to have the extra support as he shuffles out of the room.

His bare feet don’t make a sound against the linoleum floor of Martin’s flat, but he cane certainly does. Either way, it doesn’t seem Martin has noticed. 

Martin is sitting on the sofa in the living room, his elbows on top of his knees and his face resting against clasped hands. He’s staring at the unopened blue book sitting on the light wood coffee table, a picturesque mountain range splashed across the front cover. It’s easy to see from the edge where Gerry’s page has been carefully placed inside for safekeeping.

“Love?” Jon calls from the edge of the hallway that leads to the bedroom and bathroom. Martin’s eyes snap up, and his entire body seems to sag a little. How long has he been sitting there, Jon wonders. Looking at the bags beneath Martin’s eyes, and the exhaustion clear on his face, Jon isn’t sure he wants to know. He wonders if Martin has slept at all.

He walks over, gingerly sitting down next to Martin. If he wants Jon to leave him alone, he will, but Jon is loath to do so without explicitly being asked. He really doesn’t think he should leave Martin alone right now.

“I never told you about my mum,” Martin says after a time of companionable silence. It surprises Jon, he thought that the last thing Martin would want to talk about is his mother.

“No,” Jon agrees. “But I have to say, I think I can understand why you didn’t. Although I suppose this does explain how you knew so much about all of this before.

Martin gives a wry smile at that. “And to think, you probably only know of her better qualities.” He sighs, resting back against the sofa and closing his eyes. “I suppose if you spoke to Gerry that he made a statement?”

“I- yes,” Jon says, shifting uncomfortably. “He told me about her death, and the police investigation that followed before it was determined that neither of you had anything to do with it.”

“Hadn’t spoken to her for years at that point, yeah,” Martin confirms. “Can’t say I regret that.”

“No, I imagine not.” He bites at the inside of his mouth again. “His statement was about the book, and what came after.”

“You mean how mum decided that not even death was enough to stop her from attempting to torment us?” Martin laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah. That didn’t really work out too well for her.”

Gerry hadn’t known who had burned Mary’s pages, Jon recalls. “Was it you then?” he asks softly, “who... got rid of her, the second time?”

“Yeah,” Martin replies. “I don’t regret it either. I’d spent my whole childhood watching Gerry shield me from her, and watching as she broke him down again and again. I wasn’t about to allow that a second time, not after I had tried so hard to get us out the first time.”

They fall back into silence after that, and eventually, Martin gets up to make more tea, despite Jon’s objections that he can do it.

“You can barely walk,” Martin had said, before adding, “besides, your tea is shite.”

It would have hurt if it wasn’t so true.

They don’t bother eating. Instead, they just sit on the sofa and gaze at the damned book. Jon doesn’t say anything — he won’t allow himself to rush Martin to whatever conclusion he eventually comes to. Whatever he wants, Jon will do it.

“I want to talk to him,” Martin eventually says. Their mugs are sitting empty on the coffee table, and Jon has migrated into leaving leaning against Martin’s side, his boyfriend’s arm around his shoulders. He’s taken enough paracetamol that Martin has cut him off, despite it not helping with the pain in the slightest. 

Jon looks up, blinking sleepily at him as he processes the words. So perhaps he  _ hasn’t _ beat jet lag and is instead just absolutely exhausted. Once his brain has successfully realized what Martin has said, Jon pushes himself up. 

“I- good,” he says, nodding somewhat awkwardly. “I think you should, at least. But, um, don’t do something just because I think you should.”

Martin huffs a small laugh and reaches his palm against Jon’s cheek. “I know love.”

Jon swallows and nods, before grabbing his cane. “Good. I, um. Good.” He goes to take a step but Martin reaches for him, his eyes wide.

“Wait. Please- please stay?” he asks, “I just. I don’t want to be alone for this.” 

Nodding, Jon lets himself sit again. He reaches for the book and draws it toward him before opening it. Jon already knows what it says, having read it before. 

“Do you- I mean, would you like me to, um, read it?” he asks, hoping Martin understands. Hearing of Gerry’s last moments will probably be bad enough, but having to physically read them off the page will probably be worse.

Silently, Martin nods.

“I- yes. Um. Right,” Jon says, looking back at the page. He begins to read.

“His consciousness faded in and out like the tide. He tried to refuse their drugs, though for what purpose even he could not have said. Perhaps he was simply trying to push away the smell of disinfectant and grief that rose from his hospital bed. She was there sometimes, the one he had followed around the world to try and save the only one who mattered. He felt himself begin to slip, the icy certainty of what was happening seeping through his flesh, and as he fell away for the final time, he felt that all-consuming fear. And his only thought was to cry out for his brother, and so he did. He was sorry, so sorry. He was supposed to be home, he was supposed to have more time. He whispered the name, desperate and grieving and afraid, slurred and barely intelligible above the beeping of machines, the frantic doctors, before there was nothing at all.

And so Gerard Keay ended.”

Within a blink, Gerry stands in front of them.

Martin’s breath catches, and Jon can see the way tears begin to gather in his eyes while his shoulders begin to tremble. He stays silent as he cries, probably another long learned skill from the years spent under Mary’s roof.

Gerry looks at his brother, wide eyes and desperate, and Jon reaches out to take Martin in his arms. He lets Martin twist his hands into the well-worn jumper, the sobs shaking his body as Jon’s shoulder rapidly becomes wet. He runs a hand into Martin's hair and looks at the pained expression on Gerry’s face

“Martie?” Gerry whispers, reverent as he kneels in front of the sofa. He reaches out his hand, as if to touch, before letting it fall back to his side. Gerry would only phase through him.

Martin breathes heavily, little gasping sobs, and sits up enough to look at his brother. 

“There you are love,” Gerry says, tilting his head a little as he smiles. It’s a sweet sort of melancholy, the appearance of somebody trying to comfort another despite their own pain.

_ “Gerry,”  _ Martin sobs, reaching out. Jon takes his hand before he can. 

“I’m sorry Martie,” Gerry tells him softly. “I wish I could hug you, but- but I can’t. Not like this.”

Martin shakes his head. “I- I know, I just-”

“It’s a habit,” Gerry finishes for him. “Yeah, I know kiddo.”

It takes a while for Martin to calm down enough to be coherent, and Jon wishes he could do more. He’s never been good with grief, despite how many people he’s lost. It’s always been easier to just... not. Still, he rubs circles against Martin’s back, tells him he loves him, that it’s okay. Gerry whispers things too, about how much he’s wanted to talk to him, about how much he loves him. 

After a few minutes, Martin sits gasping a little as his body shakes. 

“I’ll get you some water,” Jon says, running a hand along Martin’s shoulder before standing.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence, but Jon can hear Gerry whispering softly to Martin as he fills a glass with water. Probably trying to calm him down more. Taking a moment, Jon grabs the paracetamol from the cabinet on top of the fridge — crying always makes Martin’s head hurt after. It’s a bit awkward to carry both with his cane, but Jon has managed worse.

Re-entering the room, Jon sees Martin leaned forward on the sofa. Gerry is on the floor in front, speaking softly.

“Here,” Jon says, putting first the water, and then the paracetamol, onto the coffee table. 

Martin gives him a thin smile and takes the glass in a shaking hand. He sips it, before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. By the time the water is half finished, he looks steadier — less likely to fall apart at the seams. 

The glass is placed on the table with a soft clink, and Martin pulls his legs up onto the sofa in the way he does when he’s nervous but trying to be comfortable. Jon reaches a hand out and lets Martin hold it softly. 

There’s an awkward silence, for a bit, as both Martin and Gerry seem to be gathering their words.

“Christ Martie,” Gerry says eventually, “I missed you so much.”

Martin gives a watery smile. “I missed you too. Every day.”

“I’m sorry,” the words come out choked, and Gerry looks to the side as he slumps forward. He chews on his lip, fidgeting with the cuff of his worn black jumper in the way Martin does when upset. “I should have, fuck. I shouldn’t have been in the US. I should have been  _ here. _ I just. I thought I had more time.” 

“Were you ever going to tell me you were sick?” Martin asks, and Jon squeezes his hand. He hadn’t realized that Martin didn’t  _ know _ before Gerry passed away.

“Of course,” Gerry tells him. “As soon as we got back, I was going to. The only reason I didn’t is because I knew you’d stop me otherwise.”

Martin laughs, but it sounds painful. “Of course I would have.” He wipes his face again, using the arm not currently held by Jon. “Christ. Of course I would have stopped you, Gerry. I-I. You’re my brother, and you just, and just  _ left. _ And then you  _ died, _ and I find out that you had a tumor all along, and-” he’s crying again. “And you never  _ told me. _ I had to find out from a doctor in an entirely different  _ continent. _ ”

“I know,” Gerry says. “I know, and I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been. But Gertrude needed help, and if I was going to die anyway the least I could do was help save the world first. Save  _ you _ first.”

“I didn’t want to be  _ saved, _ ” Martin says, sobbing. He clenches his fists and uses them to cover his eyes. “I didn’t want to be saved without you.”

“I know, but look at you. Look at this place, the home you’ve built,” Gerry sounds full of pride, his gaze flitting around the room. “A real _ home _ . It’s so full of life and all the little things you love. You’ve come so  _ far, _ Martie.”

“I just-” Martin starts. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. “I just don’t know what to say. It felt like a part of me died when I found out. I didn’t know what to do, it felt like I couldn’t even breathe. Gertrude just- she called me the next  _ day _ and told me you were dead. She just- she told me which hospital you were at, and that was it. I- I had to call them and- and figure out how to get you cremated and sent  _ here.  _ Then they told me about what happened to you in the morgue and just- I should have known what she did, but I didn’t even think about it. And now you’re  _ here _ and-”

“Hey shhh, it's okay Martie, it's okay. I don’t blame you,” Gerry hushes softly as Jon squeezes Martin’s hand. “I am so sorry about what happened. It must have been so terrible for you.”

Martin only nods, looking down at his lap. Jon can see little wet patches appearing as Martin cries.

“I love you, Martie,” Gerry continues. “Every moment of every day. Not even death can stop that.”

“I know,” he whispers. “That- I never doubted that. Not for a moment.”

“I-” Gerry starts. “I need to know, Martie, are you angry with me?” He looks at his brother, but Jon can see hesitancy and unease in his features. He wonders how long Gerry has agonized over that question, scrutinizing every action he had taken in the months before his death. It must have been terrible for Gerry — to be trapped and never knowing if he would get a chance to talk to his brother again, to say goodbye. Martin couldn’t have been the only one grieving. 

“I don’t know,” Martin replies. “I don’t think so. I’m angry that you died so far away, I’m angry that you got sick in the first place, I’m angry that you didn’t tell me, that Gertrude did what she did, but I- I don’t think I’m angry at  _ you. _ ” He looks up, finally. “I’m just really happy to see you again.”

Gerry laughs, some of the nervousness eased from his face. “I’m really happy to see you too kiddo.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, and even when I was, you weren’t that much older.” It sounds like a long standing argument, confirmed by the way Gerry smirks.

“Yeah well, you’re my little brother. Means that you’re kiddo to me,” he says, running a hand through his long, black hair. “You’ve grown so much Martie.”

“Four years is a long time,” Martin says. “But I doubt I’ve grown that much.”

“Yeah, you have. Maybe not physically but,” Gerry shrugs. “You carry yourself differently. Braver. Less like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. You seem... happy.”

“I-” Martin glances at Jon, at their hands still clasped together. “I am, I think. I still wish you were here — I still ache to tell you things when they happen, about the things that excite me — but I suppose I am happy, in a way.” 

That makes Jon’s heart flutter a little, and Gerry laughs. 

“Good. Christ Martie, that’s so good. I’m so happy for you, even if you do apparently have bad taste in choosing the  _ Archivist. _ ”

They’d talked about that, back in America. Gerry had been upset then, to find out that his brother got pulled into the world Gerry tried so desperately to keep him out of. It’s good to see that Gerry approves, even if grudgingly. 

Martin laughs, a genuine, happy sound. “Yes well,” he squeezes Jon’s hand. “At least it's never boring.”

“No,” Jon agrees, “no it's never boring.”

They all laugh again and the tension Jon hadn’t even noticed lifts a little. It's nice to see Martin and Gerry talking, even if it's a little awkward and stilted. Jon wonders what they were like before, when it was just the two of them against the world. All he knows is that they were close.

Martin was quiet for a moment after, seeming to think of his words carefully. “Gerry,” he starts, “does it. Does it hurt?”

Gerry frowned and shifted awkwardly. “I- yes,” he says honestly, and Jon remembers him saying the same thing in America. “It's not the sort of pain you can feel while alive. It’s, it just feels  _ wrong. _ To be dead and still be here.”

“Would you like me to destroy it? The page?” Martin asks, but he looks devastated as he does.

“Not now,” Gerry replies. “Later, maybe, b-but not now. Not when I’ve just found you again.”

Martin smiles at that, but a few tears escape from his eyes. He tries to scrub them away, but it doesn’t have much of an effect. 

“So, come on Martie, tell me what’s happened!” Gerry flashes a bright smile, moving to sit on the floor rather than kneel.

“Ooh, um. Christ,” Martin mutters, looking at Jon, who only shrugs. “I- I honestly don’t know what to say. Um. Jurgen Leitner is dead I guess?”

“Shit, really?” Gerry asks, smiling. 

“Yeah um. Elias Bouchard killed him. Framed Jon for the murder too.”

Gerry met Jon’s eye. “ _ You _ need a new job.”

He sputtered.

“Love, he isn’t wrong.”

“I’d quit if I could!” Jon tries to defend himself, but based on the two sets of raised eyebrows, they don’t quite believe him. Fair, probably. 

“But seriously,” Gerry says, “Leitner is dead? Finally.”

“That’s what I thought!” Martin shouted. “Like, come on. How many people do you have to get killed before karma comes after you?”

“Martin love,” Jon starts. “Are you saying you’re  _ glad _ somebody is dead?”

“Well,” his cheeks go red. “I mean. I’m not happy you got framed for murder or anything — that was bloody terrible, but maybe a little bit?”

Gerry snorts. 

“Like- Like when I found out Gertrude died. I mean, I wasn’t  _ happy  _ per say, but I certainly wasn’t going to grieve the loss.” Martin’s face darkened as he spoke, and Jon couldn’t hold that against him. Of course he would hate the woman that took his brother from him, even inadvertently. 

“I mean, at this point I probably would’ve danced on her grave,” Gerry remarks, and Martin laughs. 

“Yes, well. Perhaps I will now that I know what happened.”

They fall into an awkward silence. For all their closeness, which is easily shining through when they speak to one another, it seems finding topics is difficult.

“I’m in university,” Martin says suddenly, before going bright red. “I’m, um, studying English Literature.” 

Gerry’s entire face brightens at that. “Really? Oh, Martin, I’m so proud!”

“Yeah,” Martin rubs the back of his neck. “You don’t, I don’t know, think it’s weird? Considering mum?”

Gerry shrugs. “Can’t let her ruin everything, right? You’ve always loved reading, especially poetry. I can’t imagine you doing anything else really.”

“I’ve been thinking about maybe becoming a teacher,” he goes on to say. 

Oh. Jon hadn’t known that — all Martin had said previously was that he just loved the subject, and he’d figure out the rest later. Jon was hardly one to judge, considering his own degree in history.

“You’ll be really great at that Martie,” Gerry says with a soft smile, giving Martin a look of pure pride and love. “You’ve always been good at teaching. Remember when you took to helping out the other kids with their maths homework?”

Martin snorts. “You mean the year you came to my parent-teacher conference instead of mum?”

“You say that like she ever came in the first place.”

“True,” Martin concedes. “Christ, what year even was that? Six?”

Gerry tilts his head, clearly thinking, before he shrugs again. “Year eight, I think. I was sixteen, so you must have been twelve.”

“You went through the school system?” Jon asks, surprised. For some reason, he didn’t think Mary Keay would have wanted that.

“Martie did, I didn’t,” Gerry explains. “I was homeschooled, but I guess mum couldn’t be bothered to do it twice. She sent Martin to a nice enough public school, but he could have made it into a grammar school if she hadn’t. Actually,” he turns to Martin, “remember the half a year you were homeschooled with me?”

“Christ yeah, mum just about killed us,” Martin laughed. 

“Why didn’t you just stick to one or the other?” Jon asks. Mary didn’t seem like the type to change her mind very often.

“He found a Leitner in class,” Gerry explains. 

_ That _ certainly gets Jon’s attention.

“Yeah — Christ. A Spiral copy of  _ The Cat in the Hat. _ It showed up in my teacher’s classroom. I’d forgotten my pencil case and went back for it. I had to wrestle the book from her grip — I’m still not sure what exactly happened to her when she read it.”

Jon smirks. “Well, I suppose if there was ever a children’s book in closest alignment to the Spiral, it would be that one.”

Martin hums in agreement. “As for why I didn’t mum sent me to school in the first place,” he shrugs. “Mum didn’t want to bother with both of us, so it was easier to send me away for the day.”

Jon frowns. “That’s terrible.” He can empathize, considering his grandmother was similar in that retrospec, but at least Jon never doubted that she loved him — albeit grudgingly. He isn’t sure Martin and Gerry even had that from their mum.

“It could have been worse,” Gerry tells him, giving Martin another fond smile. “At least we had each other.”

“Did you chase Leitners’ as well?” Jon asks Martin. He knows that Gerry did, back when he was a teenager.

“Some,” he replies. “Not as much as mum or Gerry. I think I found one or two after that, but mostly I just tagged along and stayed out of sight when Gerry went after them. Usually, I just stitched Gerry up afterward.”

Gerry cringed at that, and Jon raised his eyebrows in question.

“Hunting evil books isn’t exactly the safest pastime,” Gerry explains. “I got more than a little beat up. Mum wasn’t about to explain what happened to A&E doctors, so when Martin got old enough, he took over.”

“I must’ve been nine the first time I had to stitch a wound?” Martin says, thinking out loud. 

“Uhhh,” Gerry squints up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I think so.  _ Cardinal Blood _ by Elijah Saunders. Bet you can guess which entity  _ that _ one related to.”

“I believe we have that one in the Artefact Storage, actually,” Jon says, thinking out loud. “Stored next to  _ To Build a Nest _ by Violet Tailor.” 

“Corruption?”

“Corruption.”

Martin shivers. “The worst fear, if you ask me. Well. That and maybe the Lonely.”

“Can’t say I’m too fond of Spiders,” Jon mutters, wrinkling his nose as he remembers  _ A Guest for Mr. Spider. _

Gerry leans back on his hand. “While those all suck, I have to say that I’m particularly hateful of the Desolation. Damn Lightless Flame pricks.”

Martin sighs loudly. “Well, that one was your own fault.”

“It was not!” Gerry huffs offendedly.

“Gerry. You missed  _ Christmas. _ ”

“You were the one who decided to fight Degio Molina in a churchyard!”

“Wait,” Jon stops them. Both Martin and Gerry turned to look at him curiously. “Are we talking about Statement 0121102? The nurse at the hospital where you,” he pointed to Gerry, “apparently killed Deigo Molina?”

Gerry blinks a few times before breaking out into a large smile. “Oh, she made a statement then did she? Any idea how she’s been doing?”

“As of 2015, she was fine. Still gets the feeling of being watched occasionally but,” he shrugs helplessly, not bothering to finish.

Gerry nods, apparently satisfied with that. “Do I show up in any other statements?”

“Hm,” Jon thinks, trying to remember. “Statement 0102503 by Andrea Nunis in Genoa, Italy. You helped her escape the Lonely. 0132806, when Dominic Swain managed to track you down about Ex Altoria, due to your affiliation with Pinhole Books and Leitner’s. You bought and destroyed the book on sight. Actually,” Jon frowned, focusing on his memory of the Statement. “I think Martin may have been in that one.”

“Really?” Martin looks downright delighted at that.

Jon nods, sure how. “Dominic Swain had been told by a rare bookseller that Jurgen Leitner dealt with Pinhole books. He went to the location, where the new owner of the building sent him to your address, saying that you left it if anybody came in with a Leitner. In the Statement, Mr. Swain said that he found an apartment, and upon knocking on the door, it was answered by a red-haired young man who called for you when asked for.”

“Oh yeah,” Martin says, recalling the incident. “I remember that now. You spent what, 5000 pounds on it and then turned around and burned it?”

“Sounds about right,” Gerry agrees. 

“He mentioned a painting, too,” Jon continues. “A painting of an eye, captioned  _ Grant us the sight that we may not know, grant us the scent that we may not catch, grant us the sound that we may not call. _ ” 

“I think I still have that one actually,” Martin admits. “Somewhere in storage, with the rest of your things.”

“You kept them?”

“Of course,” Martin says it casually, like he hasn’t been holding onto his dead brother’s things for four years. 

Judging by the saddened look on Gerry’s face, he’s thinking the same thing as Jon.

“You were both probably in Statement 0020406 as well,” he changes the topic before it can get emotional again, recalling the contents of that Statement. “In the basement of Pall Mall. Harold Silvana mentioned two boys. One of which was you, Gerry, but the other was younger and unnamed, although apparently not happy to have been forced to stay outside the tunnel.”

Gerry snorted at that. “Oh yeah, Martin was pissed off for days after that.”

“The book was hardly even worth it, in the end,” Martin goes on to say. “Just a book of poetry in Sanskrit about dead animals.” He shrugs. “I love poetry, but I’ve gotta say, it wasn’t even that good.”

“Have you considered, Martie, that perhaps your Sanskrit is just terrible?” Gerry asks in a teasing tone. 

Martin just waves Gerry off. “Is that all his statements, Jon?” he asks, smiling softly in the way he does when he’s particularly happy

“As of now, yes,” Jon replies. “I haven’t found any more, at least. At any rate, you’re in more Statements than Simon Fairchild.”

“Well at least I can put that on my CV,” Gerry says, rolling his eyes. 

Things are easier after that — Gerry and Martin fall into an easy banter, with Jon occasionally jumping in to add a comment or two. They reminisce on childhood stories, on Martin helping Gerry through migraines that they  _ think _ were inherited from their father. Gerry even went as far as convincing Martin to show off photos of his goth phase.

“It was a bad idea,” Martin says as he scrolls through his phone, looking for the old photos. “I was about thirteen and decided to try and look like Gerry. It- it wasn’t good.”

Gerry laughs. “Oh come on Martie, it was adorable.”

Martin taps his phone before turning it around and showing Jon

Sure enough, there is a round-cheeked boy, short and awkward with a dusting of freckles. He is, without a doubt, Martin. His hair is black instead of its natural strawberry blonde, and he’s wearing dark makeup — both eyeshadow and black lipstick, which look like they had been applied by the untrained hand of a child.

“Okay, yeah,” Jon says in agreement, “that’s pretty adorable.”

Martin is bright red. “I just wanted to look like my brother!”

“Which is  _ exactly _ what makes it adorable,” Jon tells him.

Gerry just looks smug.

“I could have had a goth boyfriend, Martin.”

Jon didn’t think it was possible, but Martin’s face seems to go even more red.

“Aw come on Jon, stop teasing my brother,” Gerry says, grinning widely. “Share some photos of your ill attempts at fashion.”

“Christ,” Jon mutters, already regretting it as he reaches for his phone. There are some old photos on Georgie’s facebook of their band back in uni. 

He finds a photo and sets his phone on the table to let the other two see. And so begins five minutes of teasing about not only the band’s choice of costuming, but also the fact he was in a band. 

It only ends when Jon agrees to sing for them. He hasn’t sung for other people in years and ends up blushing up to his ears after. 

Martin likes it though, and kisses him after, despite Gerry’s teasing whistle. It’s nice. Jon is an only child, and he never had many friends either growing up, or even as an adult. He can practically see the devotion between the two of them as the day wears on. 

Morning becomes afternoon, becomes evening, and they spend it together. Martin opens up a bottle of wine he’s had stashed away while Jon orders pizza. They eat on the sofa, laughing as soft music plays in the background. They pour some wine out into one of Martin’s flower pots for Gerry, and Martin cries again, but that’s okay.

He’d never gotten a funeral, and Gerry says he wouldn’t have cared for one either. But this,  _ this _ is what he wants. 

“Thank you for this, Jon,” Gerry tells him quietly as the sun begins to descend over the horizon. “I know it couldn’t have been easy.” The three of them are leaning against Martin’s open windows, watching as the sky changes colours.

Jon shrugs, his fingers linked with Martin’s. “It was worth it.”

“I’m just,” Gerry breaths shakily. Jon doesn’t know if he can cry like this, but it seems like he’s about to. “I’m really glad you two have each other.”

Martin squeezes his hand, “Yeah. Me too.”

They wait in silence until just after dark, with the first stars visible far above. 

Gerry looks up at them, before taking a deep breath and turning to Martin. “I- I think I’m okay to go now.”

Martin gulps, tears already starting to fall. “Yeah,” he whispers, reaching out to let his hand pass through the space Gerry occupies. Gerry smiles sadly and holds up his hand, balancing it carefully below Martin’s. It looks like they’re holding hands now, even if they can’t actually touch. 

“You’ll be okay, love,” Gerry whispers. 

“Yeah,” Martin replies, just as softly. “Yeah, I will.”

They stand in silence for a moment.

“I love you, Gerry. I’ve always loved you, and I always will. You’re- I didn’t know how to go on without you. I- I still don't, but I’m figuring it out, I think.”

“You are,” Gerry agrees. “And I’m so  _ so _ proud of you for that. You’re doing better than I ever could have dreamed of.” He flashes Jon a smile. “It was good to meet you Jon. Take care of my brother, yeah?”

“I- I’ll try my best,” Jon says, trying to swallow his own tears. He isn’t sure how well he succeeds, but that’s okay. This is about Martin now.

Turning back to his brother, Gerry meets his watery gaze. “I love you, Martie, so,  _ so much. _ No matter what happens, no matter how good or bad things get,  _ never _ forget that.”

“I won’t,” Martin whispers, closing his eyes.

A gentle breeze blows through the room, and just like that, Gerry is gone. All that remains now is a pale coloured page, with dark ink scribbled across the surface. 

“We can wait-” Jon starts. 

Martin shakes his head. “No. No, we should do it now. But, um. Do you think we could- together?” he asks, his voice fragile with tears and grief.

“Of course,” Jon says, taking hold of Martin’s hand and squeezing it.

He sources out an empty garbage bin and grabs his lighter from the pocket of his coat. Martin sits on the sofa, running his hands gently along the surface of the page. He isn’t looking at it though, rather, Martin is staring off at the blue and white urn placed carefully on the bookshelf.

“Love?” Jon asks, setting down the bin and the lighter.    
  
Martin looks at him, pulling his hand away from the page. “Sorry, caught up in my head for a moment, I suppose.”

“That’s alright,” Jon tells him, rubbing a hand along Martin’s arm. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Martin is quiet for a moment, in the way Jon has come to recognize as him gathering his thoughts. Eventually, he says, “I’m just trying to think of what comes next, I suppose. I don’t know whether I should keep these ashes, or get rid of them. It just seems like the easiest thing to focus on for the moment.”

“Why don’t we gather them in a container, and you can decide how you feel about it later?” It’s the best solution Jon can think of right now. Martin seems like he needs time before making that type of decision.

At his boyfriend's agreement, Jon hesitates. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.

“It’s what he wants,” Martin whispers. “I- I never got a chance to say goodbye, before. But I did this time. I just- I thought I was finished grieving.”

Jon wets his lips and picks nervously at his nails. “I’m not sure if anybody ever really does.”

“No,” Martin agrees. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

They sit in silence a bit, after Jon puts the lighter on the table. He won't rush this — Martin can and should take as long as he needs. 

Eventually, Martin reaches out. He runs a hand over the page again, before picking up the lighter. He hands it to Jon, who takes it in his free hand. 

“I can- I can hold the page if you-”

Jon only nods. “Yes, of course, love.” 

The lighter has never felt heavier in his hands than it does now — the weight of 31 years of life and love. This is what Gerry _ wants _ . He’s spoken to Martin, he’s gotten his  _ closure. _ Martin has too, in a way.

Carefully — almost reverently — Martin picks up the page. It looks like he too feels the weight, probably even more than Jon does. This is the last of his brother, after all. 

Martin hesitates, but only for a moment. Then, he’s holding up the page with one of the corners dangling toward Jon’s lighter.

He flicks it on, letting the flame dance for a moment before holding it to the page. It catches quickly, and Jon and Martin watch as the page is consumed. Only when the fire is getting close enough to burn Martin’s hands does he let the page fall to the bin, where it becomes nothing but ash.

“Are you okay, love?” Jon asks, squeezing the hand he hasn’t let go of since sitting down after Gerry was summoned. 

“No,” he whispers back, his eyes full of barely contained tears. 

Jon supposes that was a stupid question to ask, but Martin still answered. He always answers. 

“He- he wasn’t supposed to die like this,” Martin says. “Young, with so much left unfinished. He- we- we were supposed to have longer.”

“I know, love,” Jon murmurs, letting Martin curl against his shoulder again. “I’m so sorry, but- but at least he’s free now. At least he isn’t in pain anymore, and- and he wasn’t alone this time.”

There isn’t anything to say to that, and Jon just rubs his back as Martin sobs, grief-stricken. He’s loud and wretched, shoulders shaking. Jon wonders how many times Martin had done this with nobody there to listen or comfort.

“You aren’t alone this time, either,” Jon mutters, rubbing Martin’s back.

**Author's Note:**

> How did Gertrude find out how to make a page? She Knew it, the way Jon Knows things.
> 
> I hope you liked this! Please kudos and/or comment, it makes my day <3


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